Sirgar abandoned the pretense of ineptness on his next approach. He slid forward with smooth, wide steps, changing direction at the last second. Mezzino whirled forward, twisting inside the blow. He let his blade drop along his forearm, blocking his opponent's weapon, while throwing his left elbow back. Sirgar turned away from the blow and jumped backward in a manner similar to the final blow of the previous drill. His sword flashed at Mezzino's neck but the fandyiha ducked. As the blade passed over his head the Sandlander straightened and slapped Sirgar's sword hand, adding to the momentum of the missed attack. Sirgar's wrist strength was impressive; he converted the swing to a backhand blow faster than Mezzino thought possible. This time, the Sandlander curled his fingers into a fist and struck the back of Sirgar's hand. Sirgar grunted, and the crowd roared at the speed of both attack and defense. Sirgar backed away and tossed his sword to his left hand, shaking out the bruised right.
Mezzino was on him in an instant. He feinted toward the sergeant's knee then brought his sword up sharply to thrust at the stomach. Sirgar redirected his parry just in time. He knocked Mezzino's weapon aside but lost his own in the process. The Sandlander shot in close and delivered two vicious punches to his opponent's midsection. He dropped the tip of his sword, ready to end the bout with a sweeping blow. Once again, Sirgar's reaction impressed the Sandlander. The sergeant ignored his lost weapon and moved closer. He jerked Mezzino's robe with one hand and jammed a thumb under the Sandlander's shoulder. Mezzino was pulled off-balance but the nerve strike was thwarted by his tough skin. Sirgar pivoted, both hands going to Mezzino's right arm. Both combatants twisted until they stood face-to-face. Mezzino's arm was locked between Sirgar's hands; he was forced to drop his weapon to snake out of the grip.
The sergeant caught the blunted sword before it hit the ground, eliciting a cry of approval from the spectators. Mezzino, however, had leapt into the air. His feet shot out, straight into Sirgar's chest. The two flew in opposite directions, Sirgar landing heavily on his back, Mezzino rolling to his feet with the other sword in his hand. He was on the westerner in a heartbeat. Sirgar rolled to one side and the other, desperately deflecting Mezzino's attacks. The sergeant lashed out with his foot but Mezzino blocked the kick with one raised sandal. Under the pressure of the unrelenting attack, Sirgar finally chose a defense of last resort. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed his sword directly at Mezzino's chest.
The Sandlander twisted away and guided the weapon past with his own blade. The ring of metal on metal sang above the gasp of the crowd, and a burly shoulder drove into Mezzino's midsection. The Sandlander let his body go limp and collapsed backward under Sirgar's charge. The sergeant flipped over his opponent and hit the ground, flat on his back. In a swirl of black robes Mezzino spun around, planting his knee in Sirgar's stomach and his blade at the other man's neck.
“Who sent you to test us?” asked Mezzino. The roar of the spectators drowned his words from the hearing of anyone but Sirgar. The giant soldier gave Mezzino a wide grin.
“'Twas my own idea, Fandyiha.” Sirgar slapped the ground next to his leg, and coins began changing hands amongst the men. “There's not a man in Hurst who can beat me in a fair fight. Figured if anyone here could take you, it'd be me. Figured it's unlikely I'll be facin’ you in a real fight."
“Let us hope not,” said Mezzino. He climbed to his feet then offered a hand to Sirgar. The sergeant accepted it and levered himself up, then hoisted Mezzino's arm in the air. The gesture elicited a new round of cheers. While the men gathered around and patted both combatants on the backs and shoulders, Shinvai worked his way through the mass and caught Mezzino's eye. Kalnai was right behind him.
Mezzino extricated himself from the crowd, motioning for his two feyrhakin to follow. Though he didn't know what news Kalnai brought, he suspected he wasn't going to like it.
* * * * *
Kandys was already shaking as she dropped to the floor of the storeroom. She'd stayed awake until the dinner hour, hoping to dodge the mysterious enemy that plagued her with nightmares. It could be nothing else, she was sure. The presence of the Sandlanders in Hurst was no coincidence. They'd come seeking their grimoire and were using their desert magic to invade her dreams. The thief had managed perhaps an hour of uninterrupted slumber, then found herself repeating the all-too-familiar burglary of the Sandlander crag. Despite her terrified knowledge of the dream's eventual resolution, Kandys found herself unable to alter its course. Her feet hit the stone floor; she bolted straight for the door. She screamed as a red-skinned hand clamped down on her shoulder.
“We meet again, thief!” Ravasakh came into view, grinning, as Kandys was spun around and tossed halfway across the room to slam into the rock wall. The air rushed from her lungs and her knees turned to water. She slid down the wall into a half-crouch, trying to marshal enough strength to dash again for the door. Ravasakh, however, stood his ground. He raised one hand, fingers extended like claws, and twisted. “Let's see your face, thief."
Kandys's hand rose toward her face. Her shoulders and biceps trembled as she struggled to lower her arm. The cloth shrouding her face dripped with sweat. A high-pitched keening filled her ears.
“Show yourself, thief!” demanded Ravasakh. He repeated the gesture, his own impressive physique tensing.
Kandys's head felt ready to split. Her body convulsed and warm bile rose in her throat. Still, she clamped her elbows to her sides and fought the urge to tear the hood from her face.
“Your name, thief!” said Ravasakh.
“Kandys Corlithian!” she shouted, and an icy horror wracked her body. She collapsed to the floor, physically free of the thaumaluk's arcane grasp. Ravasakh's hysterical laughter echoed from the walls of the storeroom.
Light exploded through the dim filter of the face shroud and Kandys awoke. She scrambled about on the bed, ripping the drenched sheets away and flinging them to the floor. Stumbling across the room, half-blind despite the evening sun streaming through the window, she found the water basin and vomited until her insides ached. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, but fear spurred the thief back to her feet. She wiped the sweat from her eyes and staggered out of the lavatory just as the apartment door burst open.
The biggest dwarf Kandys had ever seen strode into the room, broad shoulders nearly touching the broken doorframe on both sides. He carried a massive, twisted mace in both hands. Chain shirt jingling, he knocked the table aside and crossed the room in four quick steps. Two soldiers with the two-headed wolf on their tabards followed him in, short swords drawn and ready.
“His Highness requests the presence of a thief named Kandys,” Stamovan said. “Come quietly, bitch, or I'll give you a beating you'll never forget."
Kandys cast a glance at the mattresses, knowing she'd never reach her daggers before the dwarf brained her with the mace. Her mind spun, wondering how they'd found her so quickly. Swallowing hard, she nearly puked again at the acid taste in her mouth. There was no doubt that going with the dwarf meant death. Escape would have to come now, from the apartment.
“I'm Kandys Corlithian,” she said, “but I'm no thief. I'm a potter—"
“Save your breath, thief. You've ten seconds to decide how you'll go.” The dwarf leered at her, and Kandys was suddenly conscious of the bedgown plastered to her body.
“At least let me dress?” she asked. Her arms trembled, and she refused to look Stamovan in the eye, trying to convince the dwarf that she posed little threat of resistance. After the most recent nightmare, the deception wasn't difficult to portray.
Stamovan stared at her for a moment, no doubt considering how an armed escort for a half-naked woman would appear on the street. He nodded and backed away, stationing himself between Kandys and the window.
“Do it fast,” he said. One of the men stationed at the door grinned.
Kandys grabbed a key from a shelf and unlocked one door of the wardrobe. The back of her neck flushed, as if the dwarf's gaze burned her skin. The wardrobe door partially obs
cured her from the eager soldiers, but Stamovan's view was completely open. She glanced over her shoulder at him. The compact warrior chuckled and wagged his tongue at her, then raised a hand over his eyes in mock deference to her dignity. In that second, Kandys disappeared into the wardrobe. The door slammed shut behind her, and her captors heard the unmistakable click of a lock fastening.
“Hell's hammer,” said Stamovan. “You've got half a minute to come out o’ there, wench! Prob'ly not that long!” He strode to the wardrobe and pounded on the front with a fist. His men glanced at one another uneasily.
“Out with you, now!” the dwarf shouted. “Beg nicely an’ I'll only break one of your legs!"
There was no answer from the wardrobe. Stamovan grunted and raised his mace in both hands. Each soldier instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes as the dwarf swung.
The crack of splitting wood was deafening. Two more swings, and the side of the wardrobe caved in completely. Stamovan dropped the mace and tore into the splintered boards. He cursed as a pile of wood and clothing grew in the center of the room. When he stepped back, the men at the door could see into the confines of the wardrobe. It was empty. A dim square of light illuminated the back, cast through a trapdoor leading to the vacant apartment below.
“After her!” screamed Stamovan, scooping up his mace en route to the door. The soldiers required no further prompting. They scrambled for the stairs, praying that the thief would be found quickly. The street, however, yielded no sign of a half-dressed woman running for her life. Stamovan swung his mace in frustration, putting a sizable crack in the wall of the building. His men sprinted away, agreeing wordlessly to conduct their search as far from the enraged dwarf as possible.
* * * * *
“A thaumarekh?” asked Mezzino. “You're certain?"
“It was a warrior-mage,” said Kalnai. “He could be nothing else.” He related his attempt to grasp Soto's weapon, how the scimitar had pulled away under its own impetus. The two Burning Men, along with Shinvai, strode down the center of Governor's Way. The sun was beginning to set before them, and even the rickshaw drivers swerved to avoid the trio. The Sandlanders scarcely noticed the surrounding traffic. Even Kalnai was still stunned by his encounter in the plaza.
“I've never heard of a thaumarekh outcast,” said Shinvai. “If such a thing were possible, wouldn't every clan know of it?"
Mezzino shook his head. “I think not. The shame of such a one being exiled would destroy a clan. I'm not surprised it's been kept secret. If one of ours were to dishonor the crag, would you wish us to be known for the distinction?"
“He must be in league with the grimoire thief,” said Kalnai. “A thaumarekh could easily provide the instruction for the attempt."
“We can't be certain of that,” said Mezzino, “but common sense says you're correct. Great Death! Can you imagine the consequences of a renegade thaumarekh with a clan grimoire in his hands?"
“But what does he want with the bayyalis?” said Kalnai. “Why summon dead spirits and dismiss them, over and over?"
“Practice.” Shinvai's head bobbed up and down as he pondered his own conclusion. “The renegade has some purpose in mind for his bayyalis, but never received the training to control them. Only a thaumaluk has the power for such sophisticated magic, so the renegade has had to study the grimoire and learn on his own."
“Possible,” said Mezzino, “but I want Ravasakh's opinion. Even the best of the thaumarekh would be sorely tested by the summoning of a bayyalis. To work such magic alone seems unlikely."
The fandyiha put a hand to his stomach suddenly and stopped in mid-stride. His lieutenants walked on for a moment before realizing Mezzino had stopped. They doubled back, looking at him questioningly. Mezzino's eyes stared into the sun for a moment.
“Ravasakh beckons,” Mezzino said. “He has the name of our thief."
* * * * *
In general, Hurst's Imperial Keep differed little from that of Addamantia's. Once inside, however, Alexander's discomfort grew. The stone-walled corridors with their hanging lanterns and time candles felt familiar, yet he recognized none of the turns nor the arrangements of the doors and rooms. They passed the open entrance of a large library where he expected to see the Addamantian servants’ galley, and a door to what he thought would be the audience hall led instead to a wide stairway. He tried to memorize the path Adriana led through the massive building but gave up quickly, his sense of direction too confused to meet the task.
At least one thing remained consistent with Addamantia's version of the building: voices echoed throughout every hallway and the entire place was alive with people on one mission or another. Near the library they passed a small knot of blue-robed Imperial wizards, then a group of men and gnomes armed with mops and buckets. Soldiers stood at attention in various places and men and women chatted about politics, market prices and court gossip as they passed in every direction. At one intersection a dwarven woman bearing a steaming tray of soup bowls nearly spilled her burden on the stone floor as she sprinted around the corner and barely dodged Alexander and Adriana. The throngs didn't thin out until they climbed a set of stairs near what he guessed to be the rear of the keep.
“This is one wing of private residences,” said Adriana. “The nicest you'll find outside of the nobility, really. Senior counselors, a few of the wizards and the top military officers. Visiting diplomats stay here as well—Hafflston's quarters are at the end of the hall."
Adriana turned a corner and produced a key from a ring on her belt. She hesitated for a second before turning it in the lock. Alexander saw her take a deep breath, as if marshalling her strength. He waited while she pushed the door open, then stepped into Virmual Postwick's home.
The size of the private apartment surprised Alexander. They stood inside a sitting room that Alexander estimated was at least ten paces wide and another ten long, complete with a fireplace in the wall to his left. Above the writing desk in the far wall was a small window with closed shutters. A set of shelves next to the desk held writing paper, a few books and a large inkwell. To the right was a curtained archway to a smaller room. The curtains were tied back and he could see the deceased counselor's bed and wardrobe. On the far side of the bedroom was yet another opening, this one leading to a small lavatory.
“Nice,” he said. “All you counselors get a place like this?"
Adriana snorted. “Hardly. My quarters are one more floor up. I've got one room half the size of this one, and I share a privy with five others. It's better than a barracks, but only because I don't have to hear someone else snore."
“Maybe you can show me sometime,” said Alexander, striding over to the desk.
“Not likely."
He lanced back over his shoulder, pleased to find the counselor grinning at his half-serious suggestion. “What went over here?” He pointed to an empty space in the corner of the room.
Adriana's brow wrinkled. “Nothing, as far as I know,” she said. “I've only been in here once, though, after Virmual was—ied."
“It looks like something was there. See how the desk and shelves are off-center from the window? Most people like the things in their homes symmetrical, which means that something else probably stood in that corner."
“I didn't know that."
Alexander shrugged. “Just something you pick up.” He turned his attention to the desk. Both the writing surface and the adjacent wall still showed dried splashes of deep red, turned almost black since being cast there by Postwick's attacker. He saw Adriana follow his gaze and grimace.
“They'll have someone clean it up soon,” she said. “Hafflston said you'd want to see the scene of the attack though, so we've left it until now."
Alexander ran his finger along the top of the desk and frowned. A fine, gray dust covered the entire surface, save for the trail he'd just wiped clean. The exposed bloodstain appeared much brighter without the powdery covering. More of it coated the floor around one end of the desk and even clung to the
wall.
“Strange,” he said. “There hasn't been near enough time for so much dust to build up."
Adriana joined him and shook her head. “That's really odd. Virmual was a fastidious man. I remember Counselor Gerhardt teasing him for bathing more than once a week."
“The door was locked, right?"
“Yes. The soldiers had to break it down, but Harri Domerrit order a new one put up so we could lock the rooms."
Alexander unhooked the shutters and pulled them open to reveal a breathtaking view of the Black Mountains.
“Beautiful,” he said and climbed atop the writing desk. It wobbled precariously under his weight but he clung to the sill and leaned out. The outer wall dropped straight below him some thirty feet or so before meeting the back lawn. Beyond the expanse of dark green grass grew a small forest. A stream cut through the lawn and disappeared in the distance at both ends of the keep. Shielding his eyes with one hand Alexander could just make out the city wall beyond the trees. He pulled himself back inside and jumped down from the desk.
“The only thing climbing that wall is a spider or a fly.” He clapped his hands together, producing a cloud of gray powder.
“It had to have been magic,” Adriana said.
“Possibly. Any decent burglar could pick that lock closed from the outside, though."
“In the time it took for the guards to get here? I'd say at the most the killer had a minute."
Alexander shrugged. “Let's check the other rooms."
They spent the next hour searching through Virmual Postwick's belongings and found nothing. Alexander prodded the counselor's mattress and flipped through his collection of books, hoping to find some clue to the man's killer; no clue was forthcoming. After checking Postwick's clothing and wardrobe he sat down on the bed, watching Adriana re-hang the last of the man's tunics.
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